


Even Ashes Burn in Wildfires

by solar_celeste



Series: Scorched Earth [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Child Neglect, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne-centric, Depression, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, More characters to be added, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, lots of art cuz i like art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solar_celeste/pseuds/solar_celeste
Summary: Damian Wayne is familiar with being the target of one's apathy, he is friends with despondency and longing. He is aware that people move through life by prioritizing what is most important to them, directing their time and energy into what is most beloved, after all, he often does the same. But Damian also knows he needs to accept that he will never be anyone's priority. A task he is quickly finding is easier said than done, because it is love and acceptance that is the most foreign to him.~“Damian was rather well aware that he was hard to love. He wasn’t made to be loved, he had been created with the intent to be used. He had been constructed piece by piece, designed to fulfill missions, to serve a purpose. If he was seen ill-fit, then there was no justification for his existence.”
Relationships: Damian Wayne & Everyone, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Series: Scorched Earth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742569
Comments: 152
Kudos: 797





	1. Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> This all came to be after I did the one thing an author should never do: re-read an old work. I was going through my dashboard and stumbled across my Dwindling series, read it, hated myself for a little, and then decided to see if I could redeem myself as a writer. I got a little sidetracked and finished later than I intended to but I am definitely happier with this result than my last attempt. Quarantine has immensely helped to give me more time and many more feelings to put towards this fic. I may add more chapters or turn this into its own series but there are other projects that will take the front burner. I don’t think I’m going to delete Dwindling because I know there is a small handful of people that enjoyed it but many parts of those works are embedded in this fic. I haven’t made up my mind yet so let me know what you think. 
> 
> Sorry for all of those who have been waiting for updates, I hope you find forgiveness in this rewrite. Enjoy!

Wayne Manor was bipolar in simplest terms. Most often, the walls were barriers to the hustle of the outside world, the smallest of sounds echoing through the empty halls. Other days -these being more rare than the silence, but becoming increasingly more frequent- the sound of laughter flowed like music out of the windows. The sound of _family,_ if one could muster the bravery it would take to go so far as to admit it. 

Damian though, found himself not caring much for either. The silence was stifling, suffocating even. He would sit, earbuds poised and iPod flashing at him, mind blank, not knowing what song to play or what else to do with himself. It was unproductive and Damian _hated_ being unproductive. That said, he wasn’t such a fan of socialization either. That seemed to always work the same way for him. First, his chest would ache, heart thudding so rapidly it was almost painful as he was forced to mingle amongst too many ingrates. Then, once he realized people didn’t seem to want to bother with him and that it didn’t really matter how he behaved, he quietly left. His heart aching in a different way as he made his hasty retreat. 

The sheets crinkled under his skin as Damian rolled over in his overly large, much too soft bed. There were too many pillows, too much cushion underneath him, and the bed was not in the center of the room. The entirety of its existence screamed idiocy, the design was set for failure, something Damian used to believe himself incapable of. Now, he scoffed at the naivety of that. How had he gone so long convincing himself he was without flaws? Hadn’t mother’s ways been enough evidence to prove otherwise? And, if all of his mother’s obvious hints hadn't been sufficient enough to confirm his unimportance, Father had practically said as such earlier in the evening.

Damian was rather well aware that he was hard to love. He wasn’t made to be loved, he had been created with the intent to be _used_ . He had been constructed piece by piece, designed to fulfill missions, to serve a purpose and, because of this, he always did his best when tasked. It was what he was taught, what had kept him alive in the League. He had no reason to believe things would be any different with his father. That these rules and regulations would _ever_ change.

But he had been proven wrong. He had been _so_ wrong, _everything_ was different with Father. 

He rolled over in bed again. Something wasn’t right. He should have been able to fall into a light sleep easily, and be shaken out of it even easier. But he couldn’t seem to turn off his brain, it was a repeat of the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that....

Damian had been having trouble sleeping lately and the darkening circles beneath his eyes had been making his struggles increasingly obvious. When he wasn’t plagued by too-realistic nightmares, he was lying twisted in his sheets, staring at the ceiling with not a fleck of drowsiness in his eyes. Still, despite all of this, he was hardly tired. Infact, recently, he seemed to have more energy than he had harnessed in a while, perhaps his entire life. In contrast, however, he was also the most exhausted he had ever been- he was exhausted someplace deep beneath his skin. 

Father’s harshness earlier had worsened that exhaustion.

They had been fighting multiple bank robbers earlier in the night -a rather pathetic waste of time in Damian’s opinion- and one of the criminals had decided to get _cock_ y. Such behavior irritated Damian when it came from _Todd_ but the same lip coming from a lowlife made him furious. Damian finally understood the phrase he had heard Grayson say on more than one occasion: _‘Old habits die hard’_ as, unfortunately, it was habitual for Damian to lose control when properly enraged.

In all reality, he hadn’t meant to hurt the man as badly as he had, but the women who had been tasked with the unfortunate job of closing the bank that night had looked so pitiful tied up behind the teller’s stand and he just-

That wasn’t important, Father didn’t care about what Damian had been thinking when he had injured the crook- just that he had done so as badly as he had. 

Father only cared that he had an excuse to bench Robin.

Though he loathed to admit it, Damian missed Mother, he missed being treated like he was valuable. He was to be the new Demon Head, he was to succeed Grandfather. And though the Father’s overall intentions were admitably profusely moral compared to those of his Mother and Grandfather, Father had no purpose for him. Damian had been dumped on the man, he was nothing but an obstacle in the Wayne home. He knew that. The stinging trapped behind his eyes knew that. Just like they knew mother wasn’t coming back for him, that she didn’t _want_ to come back for him.

There must be something wrong with him. 

His eyes stung harder than they had before and he clenched them tightly to dam the flow. _Emotions equal weakness_ , that’s what he was taught. They get in the way, drag you down, they will kill you if given even the slimmest of chances. _Fear leads to failure. Happiness is a lie_. He remembered all of this, did his best to avoid hormonal thoughts as he had been taught to do and yet, he felt as if he were breaking- though he would never admit to such.

He never meant to cause trouble, never meant to stress father, never meant to cause a war between the members of the family he’s seemingly destroying. The family he never has been nor never will be a part of. He shouldn’t have risen his hopes. He shouldn’t have been so naive. Father must never know of his momentary weakness.

Nevertheless, he didn’t have very many options, sleepless nights and tucked away blades would only get one so far. Maybe, just maybe, it would be far enough. He will be good. He will serve his purpose, as he was taught to do, _hardwired_ to do. That’s what he was made for. If he cannot even do what he was made for then there is no-

“Dami?”

Damian stiffened but did not turn towards the figure in the doorway. He could tell simply by the tone of voice that it was Grayson.

“Dames? You disappeared on us.” Dick said, a suppressed layer of hurt coating his voice. Damian huffed. The _‘us’_ his eldest brother was referring to included the rest of his so agreeable flock of brothers and Brown, all of which he would rather avoid. All of whom would rather avoid _him._ Perhaps they hadn’t outrightly said so with words but they had sent plenty of clues with their eyes. Damian could tell when he was unwanted, that when he was with them he was being constantly monitored like some wild beast. Like a _monster._

“Everyones going out to dinner,” Dick tried again. “Or, well, mostly everyone. Bruce claims he has work to do and Bat-Burger isn’t really Alfred’s thing.” He chuckles at the end of his little rant but the laugh is dry and more than slightly forced. His usual genuine smile wavered in Damian’s presence. “You wanna come?”

Continuing to stare at the ceiling, Damian weighed his options. Grayson sounded so desperate it was pathetic- a bit sad as well. It makes him _almost_ want to tag along, simply to satisfy the oldest Wayne child- who insisted on attempting to ‘fix’ everything. It was disappointing (but not at all surprising) that Father was not going. Richard should consider himself lucky that Damian’s perseverance seemed stronger that day.

“I suppose.” He muttered.

Grayson beamed in satisfaction, glad that his plan had worked. He didn’t excuse himself either, much to Damian’s chagrin, just waited for the younger boy to collect the things he needed. Damian sighed and stood, trying his best to compose himself under his older brother’s watchful stare. Chest twisted in that odd, indescribable way that was quickly becoming familiar, Damian grabbed his spring coat from the closet and his phone. His shoes were rightly stowed in the entry hall downstairs. 

He stiffened as he left the room and Dick placed one of his large hands on Damian’s shoulder, muscles tensing even further as they made their way down the grand staircase. He could hear everyone now; Todd and Brown were bickering about one thing or another and Drake was failing miserably at hiding his snickering. It was idiotic, how easily they all opened up to one another. How they trusted each other without any qualms. Damian almost had to smother a scoff at their naivety. But they would learn soon enough, he knew, just as he had. 

As he had expected, the conversation was put to an abrupt end as soon as his presence in the room was noticed. Damian wished that he had been listening more carefully, so that he could be sure they hadn’t been discussing him, that Drake hadn’t been laughing at _him._ Even so, the expression on the teen’s face clearly stated that he was disappointed Damian was participating in their little outing. Damian looked down, the tight feeling in his chest doubled and though Dick’s guiding hand didn’t leave Damian’s shoulder until they were headed to the car, Damian felt disappointed at his presence as well.

He guessed that was when it all started.

-

The spontaneous midnight outing was about as eventful as Damian had been expecting. The employees, who had long since gotten over the _Wayne’s_ dining in their facility, served them all their usuals and left them to eat. His siblings were the imbeciles they always lived up to be, shoving each other around and eating far more food than their bodies could possibly require. Voices so aggravatingly loud that Damian had a headache at the end of the meal. He himself didn’t eat much, poking around at his fries with little interest. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about his spat with Father. 

It wasn’t the first disagreement that the two had shares and it surely wouldn’t be the last, but there was something about this one that sat heavily on Damian’s shoulders. Perhaps it was because he had thought he had been doing the right thing and yet. Couldn’t have been more wrong. Or maybe it was the way Father had stared down at him, a deep hatred in his eyes. Disappointment. _Regret_. 

“You okay, brat?” Todd asked, taking a short moment to peer at Damian through his white bangs. His eyes flicked to the boys untouched food before flying quickly over to Grayson. He was practically begging the oldest to take over, to fix the situation Jason wouldn’t risk touching with a ten foot pole. 

Of course Grayson, being the overeager Fix-it-Felix that he was, jumped to action.

“You feeling bad, kiddo? Getting sick?” He asked, reaching out to lay the back of his hand on the boy’s tanned forehead. “Hm, you are a little warm,” he concluded, though Damian suspected it was the angry heat climbing to his cheeks and not fever.

“Why don’t you guys head back,” Tim said. Damian winced, the older boy had sounded too eager.

Grayson frowned at the recommendation and Damian’s chest flooded with guilt. He was doing it again, screwing things up, pulling Dick away from something he had undoubtedly been looking forward to. Damian couldn’t find it in himself to deny Drake’s offer either. He didn’t believe he was getting sick, but his head was pounding and his chest was aching from sitting quietly while the others conversed, laughing and smiling. 

Hearing no contradiction from his baby brother, Grayson reluctantly nodded and, after confirming that he would either send Alfred for them later or return to the establishment himself, ushered the youngest Wayne from the booth.

Damian shuffled to the car, heart painfully tight as he led Grayson from the group. As he forced his oh so selfless, older brother to do the one thing he would no doubtebly least like to do.

“I can call Pennyworth to come retrieve me,” he suggested, “So that you may stay.” His voice was so hushed it was nearly a whisper. He was surprised that Dick had heard it at all. 

“No, no, it’s okay. I don’t want to make him come all the way out here,” Dick replied, unlocking his car and climbing in behind the wheel. Damian followed silently, an echo of ‘ _I don’t want to make him’_ ringing in his ears.

Grayson must have read too much into Damian’s silence as he quickly followed up with: “Shi-shoot that came out wrong. Sorry Dami, I’m happy to bring you. It’s not your fault that you don’t feel good, bud.”

But the apology was an afterthought, a quick fix to a hurtful truth, and it felt too empty for Damian to really accept. Especially when Grayson was trying so hard to sooth any of Damian’s worries when the boy was not even ill, not really. He didn’t have a fever or stomach ache or whatever else it was that Grayson might have been assuming. Just a migraine, a small headache really- if he distracted himself. It was nothing worth returning home for, yet there he was, ruining Dick’s evening anyway.

He deserved the guilt trip.

He was glad too, when Grayson didn’t press the matter or attempt to make small talk- probably thinking that Damian was feeling too poorly to do so. It was the quiet drive home and the quick goodbye that made Damian thankful for small mercies, even if Dick had turned back to the city to spend the rest of his last night in Gotham with his other siblings after showing only the smallest hesitation to stay home with his youngest brother. Even if the hastiness that the young man did it all with hurt the eleven year old more than the Heretic’s sword to his heart.

Still, he attempted to calm his mind and let himself into the quiet manor, neither Pennyworth nor Father visible from the path he took to get from the entry hall to his bedroom. It was good too, since it was already becoming unbearably difficult to keep his defensive barriers in place. He wasn’t sure that he could take the look on Father’s face, not then. He wasn’t even sure if he would be able to look in the mirror.

It was all so typical though, so expected. He knew that as long as he was himself no one could love him. No one would truly _want_ to be around him.

He closed the door to his bedroom and started a shower in the ensuite, hoping to wash away whatever disease was tainting his heavy heart.

Father didn’t need him. There was no other explanation for why the man so bluntly dismissed Damian tonight. Father didn’t want him. He had said as much when he had told Damian that he was unfit to be Robin, when he told Damian he was ‘too busy’ to listen to his son’s _‘complaining’_ . Damian hadn’t wanted to complain, he had only been looking for a chance to explain himself, for an opportunity to _talk,_ but Father would never know that. Father didn’t _want_ to know, so it made no difference. 

Grayson didn’t want him, either. He had left Damian, fled back to Bludhaven as soon as he was given the chance. Damian had been burdening him, making Dick take on the unwanted responsibility of a problematic child. Even after the move, during Grayson’s far too infrequent visits to the manor, he rarely put aside time for Damian. 

Mother definitely didn’t want him. She hadn’t even tried to spare the boy’s feelings when she told him he was no longer accepted in the al Ghul household. When she disowned him. That of course had implied that she had owned him before, like some defected object she had grown too tired of to want to keep.

Damian sighed, letting the water of the shower wash over him, trying once again to scrub away the sins of his past. He let his head knock harshly against the tiled wall, he was a disgrace to every family name he had tried to bear, he didn’t deserve to be spared any of the pain that the small collision had brought. 

He often thought about running away, taking to the hills or the harsh climates of the Himalayas once more. But he knew all he would do is disrupt the beauty of the nature that was already there and make his Father and Grayson feel guilty for misplacing a poor, helpless _child_.

He fought the urge to sigh again as he shut off the tap. He didn’t _want_ to get out of the shower and catch a glance of himself in the mirror. Damian was ugly, hideous, he truly believed that. There was no reason not to, his shoulders bore a mind that offered only disappointment. His tanned skin was littered with scars that his civilian clothing barely hid. More than once he had been questioned by concerned parents or teachers for the large white gash that cut through his brow and ran past his eye. Those who were more tight lipped said that he looked like his father, others used racial slurs. Todd kept an inventory of nicknames that insult his lack of height, a byproduct of the grueling training he had endured with the League. Drake attempted to avoid him at all costs, always quick to call him a demon during the rare times they come face to face. Damian didn’t think Tim could be more correct.

Damian had accepted his fate, though he didn’t want to _live_ such a lonely future, even if he had come to terms with it. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t eaten more than a couple bites in days, why he couldn’t sleep and did not care to drink enough water to stop the never ending headaches. Contemplating his previous death and thinking about his upcoming one. What led to him asking himself if that would be taking the easy way out? Wondering if it would make him a coward.

Did…. did that even matter to him anymore? 

Keeping a knife hidden on his person was no longer at the forefront of Damian’s mind. He knew that he could never let his guard down, that is how one gets themselves killed. It had been drilled into his brain, that if he was to stay alive that he must always be prepared. Still, he had stopped prioritizing this. It was not because he now felt safe, it was because he no longer cared.

He wondered when that happened, but doesn’t bother to question it as he resigns himself to another long and sleepless night.

-

“Wow short-stack, you look more zombie than Timmy over there,” Todd joked, gesturing with the remaining half of his bagel. Tim scowled behind his monstrous mug of coffee while Damian blinked. Surely he did not look _that_ terrible. He hadn’t thought he looked any worse than the day before.

Father glanced up from his newspaper so quickly that Damian wasn’t sure whether or not he imagined it.

“I thought I sent you to bed early last night?” He huffed, refolding the parchment to study a different section. Damian would never understand why the man prefered the physical copy to an online version.

“We went for dinner,” Damian carefully responded. His father had surely known that. Nothing usually got by the man, especially when the event hadn’t meant to have been secretive. 

“You went?” Father asked with the accusing raise of an eyebrow. Damian spluttered under the scrutinizing stare, unsure of how to defend himself. 

“‘Course he did,” Todd rescued. Damian looked up, surprised at the sudden change in character. “It was ‘Wing’s last night.” 

Father narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to decide whether or not he should be cross with Damian.

“You shouldn’t have gone,” Bruce said instead. Damian bit down a scoff- it had been _obvious_ that he shouldn’t have gone the minute he agreed to accompany them. It seemed, also, that everyone else in his family agreed with that fact.

The boy swallowed his reply and squared his shoulders, nodding shortly in silent _-easy-_ agreement. Father hadn’t even been bothered to look at the boy when speaking to him and therefore had not seen this. The man grunted, then lifted his head and looked at Damian with that same accusatory eyebrow.

“Yes, Father,” Damian choked.

“Go and get your uniform on, it’s nearly time for Alfred to bring you to school.”

Damian nodded again, slightly confused at his father’s irritable mood. The man was not usually patient with Damian, but he had seemed far more gruff than he typically acted in the morning. Perhaps it was something that Damian had done? Or something that he had said? Or maybe… maybe he actually hadn’t been meant to attend dinner the previous night, no matter how brief his participation had been. 

If Todd had not seen a need to mention Damian’s appearance, then Father would have never found out. It wasn’t as if last night’s escapade had affected the boy’s sleep in the slightest, anyhow. He had still been tucked into bed far earlier than normal, and had lay awake much later. Though, he knew he could not voice that thought, not _ever_. He would have to let them think that was the reason he resembled the undead. 

Damian had learned far too early on that good things did not stem from bad truths. Complaining got one nothing but punishment and so, he learned to keep his mouth shut. He learned to leave the kitchen and go to his room silently, head bowed and the need to inform Father that he hadn’t yet received breakfast, dying quickly on his tongue. 

-

School was a drab thing, but it often provided Damian an excuse to reminisce about the times when Grayson had been his guardian, and he had been allowed to be taught by Pennyworth, in the comforts of the penthouse. (He still didn’t quite understand why Father had been so adamant about discontinuing that method, Pennyworth was far more educated than any of the lousy professors at Gotham Academy.) The students were as boring as the classes, so simple minded and judgmental. 

The building itself was rather acceptable, old stone flooring in the hallways, grand arches as doorways and rich, oak detailing along the walls. There were a handful of ancient marble statues scattered around the grounds that Damian was itching to sketch, if only he had the time. The library, though, was the most prestigious of the school.

Every wall and shelf was packed tightly with old classics, covers worn from use but relatively preserved from tender care. There were large, plush reading chairs littered throughout the space, and long, wooden tables set up for doing schoolwork. In the hectic-ness of the academy, it was a quiet refuge. Damian fled there everyday, at least once but usually more. He always spent his lunch period there, often skipping his midday meal because food was not allowed inside the library’s walls. Still, that was of no meaning compared to the alternative: sitting in the dining hall or courtyard with his schoolmates- being forced to sit under their stares. He had enough of that in the classroom, he did not need anymore. 

The librarian was kind enough to him as well, giving him a pleased smile anytime he asked her about a new book or had the care to discuss a classic. Damian supposed that she did not have many others to talk to either, just the same as he. 

He was working his way through George Orwell, an author that his school did not deem required until the tenth grade. Damian was only in sixth, but that was merely for appearances. His Father had very rudely denied Damian’s request to skip a grade -or few- and so the boy had taken it upon himself to tackle the supposedly ‘advanced’ material alone. 

The librarian, Ms. Everest (oh, how _regal_ a name that was), had quickly gotten over her shock at the short, rather young boy requesting such a complex read. Damian had immediately taken to her. She was of average height, and thus a good bit taller than the boy himself, with brown hair and soft, chocolaty eyes. She couldn’t be older than mid-thirties and her gentleness reminded Damian of how Grayson had once been with him, which was perhaps the reason he had opened up to her so quickly. 

Nearly every time he saw her he found himself eager to ask why she had wanted to become a school librarian of all the possible things, but considered that inquiry to be too personal. She smiled at him though, a genuine smile -not like the menacing ones criminals flashed at him nightly-, and he usually found his lips twitching in return.

She did the same that morning, as he pushed open the heavy library doors, grinning at him happily. This time however, Damian didn’t find himself returning the pleasantry. In fact, he was fighting a frown. How was it that she could always be so cheery? Surely it was something that she was taking with her coffee in the morning. It simply was not possibly for someone to always appear that pleased, at least not while Damian was in the room.

“Good morning, Damian,” she called after him. She assumed the boy was just going to rest his book bag on his usual chair before returning to the service desk to speak with her, as that was what he usually did. Instead, Damian walked directly past the end seat he usually occupied, continued until he cleared the long table, and ducked behind one of the tall shelves of books. He would have entirely disappeared from her view if it hadn’t been for the tiny red Converse that stuck out from beyond the bookcase. 

She stood and made her way over to the boy, slightly concerned that the child may have fainted- or worse. As she reached him she saw that Damian appeared well enough, even if his uncharacteristic demeanor was a bit odd. He was leaning against the shelf, one leg drawn to his chest, his head resting on his knee. With the opposite hand, he appeared to be sketching a rather morbid image on a small paper pad.

“Are you alright?” She asked, peering down at him with concerned eyes. Though impressive, the art the boy was creating was quite… depressing.

The boy didn’t lift his head, just made a growl like sound within his throat and continued with his drawing. 

“I wasn’t aware that you liked to draw,” Ms. Everest tried again. “You’re very talented.” Damian’s pencil hesitated against the paper in a short pause before he got over himself. 

“It is not something that I like to waste my time with,” he admitted, curling slightly further into himself.

“Why not? I think that it's important to have ways to express yourself,” she countered, _even if it was in such a gruesome manner._

“Art is not a useful skill,” Damian said, almost as if he was quoting someone. She picked up on it almost immediately.

“Who told you that?”

The boy stilled, shoulders stiffening as if he only just realized what he had said. It was too late to take it back.

“My mother,” he whispered.

Ms. Everest nodded knowingly. The Wayne’s were a family she thought was a bit _too_ publicized. All of Gotham knew the basics of each boy's backstory, including some of Damian’s. She knew that the boy had been sent to live with his father after his mother had been deemed unfit. It was a shame really, for such a captivating child to have such horrid memories. Perhaps that was what the boy was drawing, a memory from his time with his mother. 

“Well, I think that's an opinion of your mother’s,” she commented, sitting down next to the boy. She hated talking down to children. “What about you, what is _your_ opinion of art?”

“That it calms me,” he said, finally peering up at her.

“Then it’s as useful as it needs to be,” she smiled in understanding, she felt the same way about literature. She looked again at his work, now half finished and recognizable. “Is that a dead bird?” She asked.

Damian was silent at first, hesitant to answer. Then he nodded, ducking his head once more.

-

Alfred’s car was absent from the lot. It was unusual, since the man was always so prompt when gathering his youngest charge from school. He was well aware how much the boy despised the place and was always kind enough to limit the time he spent there by perfecting drop off and pick up.

But Pennyworth was ten minutes late, and Damian was growing worried.

He tried to remember if the older man had mentioned anything about a possible delay that afternoon. Perhaps there was an appointment or some other commitment that had escaped his mind. Though ten minutes later, and still no sign of that familiar, black car, and Damian couldn’t recall anything. In fact, he was fairly positive that he and Pennyworth hadn’t shared a single word in the car that morning.

He waited on the curb, slightly chilled from the crisp spring air. Damian was _sure_ he would have been notified if Pennyworth was late or if he needed to find another way home. He checked his phone once more and found no messages and no responses to the many voicemails he had only just left on Pennyworth’s cell. He had tried the manor too, and still, no one had picked up. 

He could almost imagine various members of his family listening to the shrill ring of the landline, checking the caller ID and choosing to ignore it. Perhaps they _meant_ to leave Damian at the school. Maybe it was a test, to see how long it took the boy to get himself home.

Nearly an hour after the final bell, he was just about to start the long walk that he was surely meant to make when a sleek, red lamborghini pulled up inches from his toes. Damian startled slightly, and squinted through the open window at the driver. 

“Get in brat, I don’t have all day,” Tim said. 

Damian faltered in confusion for a moment before he complied and climbed into the pleasantly warm car. The seat warmers must have been on.

“Where is Pennyworth?” He asked once he had buckled himself in and placed his bag by his feet. 

“He’s on that trip with Bruce, remember?” Tim glanced at Damian with an odd expression. “The one he had to take to Germany to meet with that production manager? For the new motherboard prototype?” 

Damian blinked, eyes wide.

“Did you seriously forget?” Tim asked.

“He- Father never told me.” 

Damian saw a curtain of disbelief flash across his older brother's face before the younger boy turned his head to look out the window. 

“Well, uh, I have to get back to W.E. for a meeting but I’ll drop you off at the manor first,” Tim informed him, albeit a little awkwardly. “Bruce asked me to stay with you this week, drive you to school and all that.”

“I don’t need supervision,” Damian spat. Did Father really consider him that incompetent? That he wasn’t even capable of looking after himself?

“Don’t bother me and I won’t hover over you,” Tim said. “Trust me, I’m not too thrilled about the arrangement myself.” 

And, well, that was that wasn’t it?

-

Ms. Everest was not at school. Or work, Damian supposed. Still, he could not recall a day that year that she had been absent. She seemed so indestructible, fragile, yet sturdy in a way that almost reminded Damian of his mother. 

The previous week without Father and Pennyworth was proving to be just about as lonely as Damian had been anticipating. Since Father had returned from his… escapade in the time stream and Grayson had so quickly reinstated his rightful position in Bludhaven, Pennyworth had proved to be the only human presence that Damian could regularly count on. Of course there were always his pets, a privilege that Damian was ever grateful for, but basking in their company would never be quite the same as speaking to another person- a category he found himself lacking in.

Pennyworth, however, was always willing to speak with or listen to Damian. Whether it was a feeling of obligation, because the man was technically earning a salary from Father -even if the entirety of the household held deeper feelings- or it was because the man was actually interested in hearing what the boy had to say, Damian wasn’t sure he wanted to know. If he could live the ability to convince himself that it was the latter, then he would prefer to suffer in ignorance.

With Pennyworth gone, Damian was effectively down to one optional acquaintance, Ms. Everest.

Except she wasn’t there.

And, worse, such news meant that the library was closed. 

Trudging through the carefully constructed hallways of Gotham Academy, Damian squared his shoulders and prepared himself for the unfortunate events that were sure to soon unfold. 

He had first encountered Jimmy Ross in history, when he had the displeasure of transferring into the same class that miscreant was already enrolled in. It was better at least, that he was allowed in at least one course intended for a higher grade, as it would be less likely for him to fall asleep from boredom. After a couple weeks of classes, however, Damian was no longer so sure that the pros outweighed the cons. 

Jimmy Ross was the epiphany of the classic school yard bully. He had his posey, a select few, larger built kids that were also in his grade and he prided himself on his ability to frighten the younger students into essentially “pissing their pants”. Damian, because bad luck always came in bundles, was a younger student. 

In the beginning, Ross’ teasing remarks and jabs were hardly worthy for eye contact, let alone rebuttal. They were too cliché for Damian to appreciate, things that the older boy had probably stolen from films he had caught his siblings watching. He commented on Damian’s clothes -an awfully poor attempt considering the Academy required uniforms- then his backpack, simple and stark grey, before moving onto his hair, his shoes, his skin color. Racism, however, had always been a constant in Damian’s young life, and he hardly flinched at the derogatory terms the boy threw at him. 

Then Jimmy moved onto his family. He and his followers said things about Richard and Drake most often, but occasionally they would pick on Jason, commenting on the false facts they had been told about his “death” and laughing at how sad it was that the Wayne family had felt the need to fake a child’s death to earn popularity. Damian had scoffed at that, for he knew the truth and had personally thought that Father handled the announcement of Todd’s reappearance rather well.

The boys had mustered slightly more nerve the day that they began to reflect upon his relationship with his mother. Of course, all of their remarks were things that he had heard previously, from multiple accounts. ‘ _She left you.’ ‘She beat you.’ ‘You deserved it.’ ‘You made her do it.’ ‘No surprise, look at you.’_ Even more so, they were all things that Damian knew. All things that he agreed with.

It didn’t sting until they dug into Damian’s mentality. Until they intercepted his thoughts and broke into his once, so well guarded mind. Until they took it upon themselves to vocalize his worries.

It started with a shove to the shoulder from behind, one that had Damian turning around from the momentum.

“Sup, Wayne?” Ross spat, spittle flying and lips quirking into a twisted grin. Damian suppressed a sigh, it was exhausting, dealing with these neanderthals every time that he was unable to take refuge in the library. Sometimes he felt like he was simply entertaining them, permitting the snobs to throw away his lunch, push and shove him down the hall, and call him names. He didn’t have the energy for such frivolous activities. 

“Being obnoxious once again, Ross? Can you really not find a better use of your time?”

“Oh yeah, Wayne?” “I’ve heard the rumors about you, all the horrible things _you've_ done. The inconveniences you’ve caused everyone. At least _I’m_ a good person,” Ross spat.

“I’m a better person than you’ll ever be,” Damian lied through his teeth. They were Grayson’s words really, his lies. They hadn’t been truthful at the time and they were even further from it now. They had only been an inane attempt to pacify Damian like some _child._

“My dad said that your mom just left you on Wayne’s doorstep, no one does that to a good person. As far as I’m concerned, you’re like a new toy, people lose interest quickly, and then they stop caring. At least _I_ wasn’t a mistake.”

“It's pathetic, really,” Damian bit back. His chest felt tight at the older boys words but he steeled himself, refusing to show it. _Put up the facade you were taught to wear._ “You think so little of yourself that you resort to childish insults in order to obtain even the smallest shred of self worth.”

“I have no self worth?” Jimmy laughed, looking back at one of his friends with a crooked grin. He turned back to Damian, eyes narrowed. “You, ‘ _worthless Wayne’_ , have the balls to say that _I_ have no self worth?”

“You have done nothing to deserve what has been given to you therefore, _worthless_.”

“Oh yeah?” Jimmy Ross was fuming, fists clenched and poised to fight, face red with boiling rage. He seemed unhinged. “ _You're_ the reason your mom dropped you. It took ten years for her to figure out that as long as you're around, she wouldn’t ever be happy. It's only a matter of time before your dad sees it too. So really, Wayne, I would say it's _you_ who doesn't deserve anything, but it seems to me like you have nothing left to lose.”

Damian froze for a moment, shocked and unsure how to respond, after all, truth always hurts more than lies. His heart twisted, his whole body was tense. He felt the pressing need to run, or fight, or both. He knew, however, that Father would be furious if Damian was to start a brawl, and that was the last thing that the boy needed.

“And really, starting a crowd by throwing a _tantrum_?” Jimmy asked, hands in the air and gesturing to the nosy onlookers that had indeed surrounded them. “Go ahead and jump off a building if you really want attention. It’s not like you’d be hurting anyone but yourself.” 

And Damian didn’t have a response to that. He didn’t have it in him to deny the blatant fact.


	2. Aflame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost I want to thank BrokenHeartedQueen for being my beta, this would not be this quality (or completed this soon) if I didn't have such amazing help. 
> 
> I also want to thank everyone for the encouraging comments, those are what made this once short little fic develop into a rather large series.
> 
> So now that we've had our little chick-flick, I hope ya'll enjoy :)

After the altercation the previous afternoon, Damian was crossing his fingers that Ms. Everest would be present, craving the peace she was sure to provide. He worried that she was ill, or that something had happened that would draw her away from work for multiple days. Jimmy Ross was not someone he could take large doses of. 

He had done some digging, prowling around the school and dipping into conversations until he was sure Ms. Everest would not be pulled from work anytime soon.

Staff conferences, Damian had discovered, were apparently something that even librarians must attend.

“You’re entering the art show,” Ms. Everest said the moment Damian strode into the library. His shoulders relaxed with relief at the sight of her. 

“Granted, you may have to censor yourself from your usual content, but I think you have an easy path to first place.”

Damian stood, wide eyed and confused. “An art show?” 

“Yes, the school has one every year. There are flyers all around, haven’t you seen them?” She asked. 

Damian supposed he had, but he hadn’t _read_ them. He had been too distracted recently, trapped in his head more often than necessary. Damian’s ears flushed with embarrassment. He was going against everything he knew too quickly. He needed to correct himself, refocus and center himself. Damian made a note to meditate that evening. 

“Entries are due in two weeks,” Ms. Everest continued through Damian’s silence. “Artwork can be any subject, any style, and any medium. Try and aim for something P.G.” 

There was a smirk on her lips at that remark. Damian ignored her amusement. 

“Why should I enter?” Damian asked incredulously. 

“Because someone needs to know that the wealthy have talent too,” She finished jotting something down on a sticky note before handing it to him.

“Because people need to hear your voice and _you_ need to allow them to.” She said in a quiet tone, before turning on her heel and disappearing into the back room. 

Damian was left blinking, eyebrows furrowed as he looked at the neon note in his hand, Ms. Everest’s flawless cursive staring back up at him. 

_Bring to the main office by 3pm, May 25th._

_Create without boundaries, let them see you._

-

Creating artwork with the intent to present it to a certain audience was much different than any other time Damian had ever painted or sketched. He second guessed his ideas, tearing apart the slips of paper he had hastily scribbled them onto. Nothing seemed good enough, everything was either horridly elementary or cliché, and he didn’t want to enter something he had already made, that seemed thoughtless. Ms. Everest didn’t bring this opportunity to light so that Damian may be thoughtless. 

What was the opportunity, though? Nothing was to come out of this, as nothing ever did with his art. Mother had always told him so, chastised him for the amount of time and supplies he put toward it, scoffed at the enjoyment he got from it. Was it rational to enter at all if there was no gain, if it was only a waste of his time? Damian would not win, in fact he doubted he would even place, despite Ms. Everest’s confidence otherwise. There were much more important things that Damian needed to be practicing, studies and training that should take priority over his meager hobbies. 

There was no reason to waste so much time pondering a subject for such an impractical endeavor, but at the moment, it seemed that Damian did not have much else to do. His schoolwork was facile and occupied little to none of his time. Patrol was suspended with Father out of town, Robin not yet being allowed without Batman's companionship- without a safeguard to ensure the boy didn’t unleash his inner demon and depart on a killing rampage. The cave had even been sealed, just to further show Father’s lack of trust in his own blood, and thus, training had become terribly limited.

It was not like Damian possessed any friends, either. 

He had taken Titus for a walk earlier in the evening, fed the animals and hassled Alfred the cat until he too had become tired of the incessant attention. Now, sitting and stroking the fur behind Titus’ ears, he simply - in layman’s terms - had nothing better to do.

It was a drab moment, when he could nothing else but fret over the possible future judgments of others. He wondered when he had become so pitiful and emotional. So… like _Grayson._

Shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts and make way for new ones, he pulled out another slip of paper. He typically didn’t linger on ideas, simply fabricated them as they came, but those were for his own satisfaction. If his art was too gruesome and maniacal, no one was around to condemn his taste. If they failed and appeared horrendously elementary, then only he would know. This was something everyone would see, perhaps even Father. 

The older man had shown little interest in Damian’s art in the past, especially in contrast to the way Grayson had reacted when he had first stumbled upon the boy's doodles, but Damian hoped that Father would not see the concept as fruitless as Mother had. Perhaps he would even be proud; perchance Father would be honored that there was a connection between Damian and the Wayne’s besides blood. After all, Grayson had seemed rather pleased when he informed the younger boy about Martha Wayne’s talent for art. 

Still, Damian’s palms grew slick and his heart pounded when he considered presenting his art to a gathering. He had never allowed more than Grayson and, rather accidentally, Ms. Everest to see his work. Damian did not think that he was ready for the criticism and judgement of more. 

“What do you think, Titus?” He asked, despite how foolish he knew the action was. The large dane merrily peeked up at the boy from his position at his feet. 

He was sure that there was a quicker way to go about this. Perhaps an online generator or drawing a card from a hat, but Damian liked his creations to be personal, unique. They had to come from deep within otherwise they didn’t really feel like his at all. 

Damian considered watercolors, though they were risky and difficult to perfect. There was a deadline closing in, which made him hesitant to risk over-hydrating his paintbrush on the last stroke and destroying the nearly complete painting. He also considered a thicker paint, but he thought it may be too loud. Of course he wanted to be proud of his submission, but he did not want it to be the first thing that everyone saw. He didn’t want the vibrant color often found in acrylics or oil paints to draw more attention than was welcomed.

Ultimately, he decided to do a classic charcoal sketch, something simplistic and colorless so that the viewer may be drawn to the picture itself without anything to obscure the meaning of the image. Damian loved the tone that black and white images carried, how they could be both soft and loud at the same time. How they could have many different meanings depending on which way the image was viewed, on who the observer was. To him, his sketch may have an entirely different meaning than it did to others. It was his way to privately express himself, a therapeutic way to decompress without exposing secrets and horrid truths.

The most difficult task was left; verifying his subject.

He looked down to Titus once again, leaning over to scratch behind the canine’s ears. He often found himself wishing that his animals could speak to him, longing for the wholeness that would surely bring. Nevertheless, his childhood belief in magic had long since died and he forced himself to forget the illogical desire. 

“You would have brilliant suggestions, wouldn’t you, Titus?” He found himself asking anyway, as the hound nuzzled Damian’s small hand. He wasn’t sure who he was attempting to amuse, since it was more probable that Titus would suggest images of squirrels or birds that he could chase-

_Birds._

Almost immediately, an image formed in his mind and he winced at the honesty of it. He had never shown anyone something so deeply personal before, the mere thought of it was almost overwhelmingly intrusive. Yet Ms. Everest had been so sure of him, so _encouraging_ . “ _Create without boundaries, let them see you_ ,” she had said.

Damian smirked, shoulders squaring with a newfound determination. He tackled his pencil collection, searching for the finest size he possessed, barely taking a moment to play some music before scribbling hastily onto the blank page.

-

It took four days for Damian to be pleased with his entry piece. The first day he merely outlined, getting his thoughts onto paper by drawing simple bone structures and then stepping back to scrutinize the image for minutes on end. If he had the ability, he would have liked to gather input from others throughout the process, collecting opinions and modifying the picture to better satisfy the taste of a larger, more general crowd. Unfortunately, there was a pressing lack of help available and he was forced to put faith into his own taste and cross his fingers.

The second day he added slightly more detail and spent much of his time shading the image. There was much less effort spent on the background, as he was really inclined not to let that be the focus.

The third and the fourth day went by much the same, details added in the appropriate places and scrutinizing the forming image with every added change. 

Throughout it all there was no interruption. There was no knock on Damian’s bedroom door, no inquiry as to what he was doing, why he was spending such ample amounts of time in his quarters. He knew this was to be expected, there was no reason for anything otherwise. Father and Pennyworth were gone for another day, and he and Drake had never shared the most conversational relationship. Even after a year of the two being forced to tolerate the other's presence, there was hardly a bond between them at all.

It was difficult for the both of them, no matter how many times Dick had tried to coerce the two into a closer brotherhood. For Damian, it was a matter of pride- admitting to the older boy that he hadn’t ever _really_ wished him dead and that he most definitely no longer did. 

It was impossible to allow Drake to see how fearful he had been of him, how fearful he _still_ was of his “older brother’s” secure position in the Wayne family. Damian didn’t think it would ever be possible for him to admit that the threat he felt had been hidden behind a false thirst for blood. 

Damian hadn’t wanted to kill Drake, he had never _wanted_ to kill _anyone._

He supposed it was too much to ask for people to look beyond his past actions. 

The absence of bond between him and Drake had never bothered him as much as it had during that period of Father and Pennyworth’s sudden absence. Besides Ms. Everest, who he couldn’t share much with, there was no one else for him to talk to. He had not seen or heard from Grayson since that disastrous outing -something that cut deeper than Damian ever wanted to allow it to- and he didn’t see Tim unless he was traveling to or from school. 

Even his patrol had been stripped away. 

Damian had never felt as lonely as he had then,which was a feat to accomplish.

Throughout his time working on his submission, Damian kept the flyer he had santched from one of the school hallways. It was folded into small rectangles, creases formed tight and precise with a careful frustration. It sat with the weight of a bolder and his desk drawer. 

Ms. Everest had suggested that Damian invite his Father and brothers, with his endless supply of siblings being constantly displayed to the public, the woman had seemed convinced that he had no lack of family that would be eager to attend. 

A longing for just that sent sharpened daggers straight into Damian’s already lacerated heart. 

There was no one he could invite. 

The gallery show wasn’t until after both his Father and Pennyworth would have returned from their business and Damian had already checked his father’s schedule, it was clear during the night of the showing. _That doesn’t mean that he’ll come._ Damian had to remind himself. 

Father wasn’t even rightfully aware of Damian’s passion for the arts, only Grayson, and the boy was frightened of what the man’s reaction would be. 

He wasn’t sure he would be able to manage without his creative outlet if Father were to try to take it away from him.

Still, Damian was not sure which was worse; telling Father and facing the consequences that he was sure to bring or attend the event alone. 

His heart thumped dangerously at either idea.

In the end, he decided on a, supposedly, happy medium. He would be subtle in his approach, not directly coming forth to Father with his proposal but working the notice into the man's schedule and hinting at the event up until the night of. It was a cowards approach, but it would be sufficient for Damian. 

The encroaching devastation he felt picturing himself standing next to his piece on his own, watching over the other proud parents and guardians as they fawned over their children's creations stat so heavily with him that he was able to muster up the cosmic amount of courage it was going to take to move forward with his plan.

Courage he nearly lost the night before Father’s return. 

Damian, feeling rather peckish after missing his lunch in order to seek refuge in the library, had the unfortunate coincidence of entering the kitchen the same moment that Tim was exiting. The older boy was carrying a plate of what appeared to be a sliced apple, in the other had been a steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee.

In one, though rather ungracious movement, the two collided. In a scramble of limbs and cuss words, Damian tripped, soaring over his brother's slightly elevated foot and tumbling to the ground. He had twisted as well, trying his best to avoid Drake’s prepared snacks as he fell to the floor. Needless to say he was not as successful as he had hoped. 

His elbow caught, if only slightly, on the lip of Drake’s coffee mug, pulling the vessel from the hand it had been residing in and spilling the entirety of the hot contents over both of the boys. 

“Fuck!” Tim screeched, coffee staining the white dress shirt he had yet to remove. He grappled, barely regaining a firm grip on his plate of apples and saving those too from succumbing to a similar fate. “What was that for?”

Damian sat frozen for a moment, shocked at what had just occurred, steaming liquid seeping into his pants.

“Seriously, brat, I steer clear of you for over a week- do _nothing_ to you, and right before reprieve you _still_ have it out for me,” Tim continued, not yet noticing that Damian was in a similar position as he, covered in minor burns. Broken glass from the shattered mug dug into Damian’s legs from where he was seated awkwardly on the floor.

He wanted to call Drake out, tell him that doing _nothing_ was the exact _opposite_ of what Damian truly wanted from his older brother, but he remained silent. He didn’t know what to say or how to feel about being accused for staging something that had so obviously been an accident. He didn’t want to acknowledge the pain that was left in his chest from how quick Timothy had been to point blame. Compared to that pain, his physical ailments were numb.

“Dick was stupid to make me do this in the first place,” Tim grumbled, moving to snatch some paper towels from the counter and attempt to dab his dripping shirt. Somewhere in the back of Damian’s throat he wished to tell Drake that trying to salvage the garment was a waste of time, but the older boy’s words had distracted him from any snippy retort he may have had.

“What does Grayson have to do with this?” He asked, voice sounding more timid that he wished it to, he cleared his throat. Tim looked up, paper towel pausing mid dab as he seemed to realize what he had just said. 

“Nothing, nothing,” he hurried, going back for more towels. Damian was irritated at the poor attempt to placate him like some _child._

“No Drake, you must-”

“He talked me into staying here this week, okay?” Tim yelled, chucking the sodden napkin onto the counter in vexation. “He wanted us to bond, settle our differences, join hands and prance under a rainbow. You know him.” 

So Drake was there because of some probable threat of blackmail, most likely Grayson’s last ditch effort to wiggle his way out of staying with Damian himself. 

“That _fool,_ “ the boy spat. 

Tim sighed, giving up on preserving his clothing at last. “Just stay clear from my room for the rest of the night, deal? Then tomorrow everyone comes back and we can pretend like things are the cheery, dandy way Dick wants them to be, yeah?”

Tim started to retreat, leaving his browning apples and broken coffee mug abandoned in the kitchen. Damian was left among them, sore, slightly burned and bleeding, frozen in the same position to which he had fallen. He bit down on his lip, trying his hardest to refrain from asking the question that sat so impatiently on his lips. He had nearly succeeded in his forced silence, but couldn’t help himself from blurting his inquiry just before Drake disappeared from view entirely. 

“Is it really that important to avoid me?” His voice was stronger than the previous time that he had spoken but still smaller than his usual boldness.

“You do things like this and then you ask me _that_?” Tim exclaimed in exasperation. 

“You think I orchestrated this? Can you not see me, Drake?” At Damian’s words, Tim finally looked down at the boy still seated in the cooling mess. He offered no response, simply studied the scene with jaded eyes. Damian continued, walls crumbling under the stare. “Perhaps it truly _is_ impossible to think that I may not wish any harm upon you. Or have you not considered that possibility?”

“Does it surprise you that I’m being cautious?” Tim asked, eyes narrowed accusingly. “After all the things you’ve done? I can’t trust you, Damian. Not with the record you have.” 

Time froze, oxygen thickened and blood chilled at the firmness with which the statement had been said. Tim was speaking only the cold hard truth, admitting what he whole heartily felt with every ounce of his being. He had said what Damian suspected he had been itching to say since their first meeting.

As Tim left, shuffling away without even the slightest hesitation or backwards glance, any hope of a true brotherhood between the two left, leaving Damian cold, and impossibly more numb than before. Small drops of another, much saltier, liquid mixing with the lukewarm java.

-

When Damian entered Gotham Academy’s main office three days later at 2:56pm on May 25th, he was scabbed over and exhausted. He hadn’t slept much since hearing Drake speak those words with such undying certainty. They had haunted him, images of the truth they revealed playing through his head every time his eyes would slip shut. Drake would never understand how accurately he had voiced Damian’s greatest fears that night. 

Father and Pennyworth had returned very early the morning after the boys’ dispute and had been suffering the consequences of time differences when Damian had left for school - on an old fashioned pedal bike in a sorry act of avoiding Tim. He hadn’t seen the older boy at all that morning. Damian questioned if Tim had already fled back to the welcoming safety of his own apartment. 

It wouldn’t have been shocking if he had. 

Dinner with Father the following night had been a drab event, quiet as per usual, though less tense. Damian was still not yet clear on what qualifies as exceptional conversation topics in the Wayne home, par chatting with Grayson. Since Bruce - especially over-tired, jet lagged Bruce - wasn’t much for talking, their company was usually of the quiet kind. 

Most days, Damian found himself longing for the easy back and forth that he and Grayson had once shared in their home far above Gotham’s toxic air. For the first time in a long time, he found himself content with Father’s mere presence, as scarce as it turned out to be. 

Damian could not blame the man for burying himself in the cape and cowl after being away from the thrill of vigilantism for so long. If in his father’s position, Damian would have surely done much the same. He could only hope that in the man’s closed off, weary state that he had checked his calendar and seen the new event Damian hadn’t yet talked himself into deleting- a notice that he had taken the extra mile to appear on _all_ of the families calendars.

There had been numerous opportunities where the small, yet very insistent, voice in the back of his head had almost convinced him to hack himself back into the system and destroy all traces of the gallery. Moments where Tim’s words had come back with such vengeance that he had to fight from tearing apart his own skin, telling himself that no matter how far he dug, he wouldn’t be able to reach the hateful words and bitter feelings within. Digging fingernails and “accidental” clumsiness helped quiet the voices, though. 

He had reached out in one final endeavor to gain his father’s attention by leaving that precisely creased flyer on the man’s desk. It was late in the night before the show, and - because Damian and Bruce would hardly cross paths before the following evening and Damian _knew_ the man would be in his office a sufficient time before then - he took his chances and dropped the unfolded parchment directly on his father’s keyboard.

There was chance though, there was always going to be a chance. Perhaps the window had been left open and Damian did not realize and now an errant breeze would come to sweep the flyer onto the floor- under a shelf or chair. Or possibly, Father would put off work until the following evening, have a change of heart and call in sick for the first time in years.

Even as he was handing in his submission, even while he was walking back to the library where he would pass time until the show, doubt lingered. 

After all, it wouldn’t be out of character for his family to be aware of his show and ignore it _intentionally._

Still there was one person that had always promised him acceptance, that had looked him straight in the eyes and told him, no matter what, that he would _always_ be there. Though the knowledge that promises were so often broken pressed heavily, with that lingering, prickling fear that Father _wouldn't_ see his trail of breadcrumbs - or that he would and would chose to _ignore_ it - Damian pulled out his cell phone and punched out the most unsettling few words he had ever typed:

_Art show tonight. 7pm. Gotham Academy._

He just hoped, with every single ounce of his small being, that Dick Grayson would make good on his promise.

-

Voices jumbled together until they formed an undistinguishable mess. Lights, turned to the very brightest setting, illuminated the artwork hung meticulously on the walls and temporary stands below. The gallery show was being held in Gotham Academy’s very large, and very pristine ballroom, floors twinkling and freshly polished. Damian was pleasantly surprised that the academy would go to such lengths to ensure a good production for the _arts_ as typically sports were a school's primary focus. 

He stood by his piece, encased in a mahogany frame and presented proudly in the center of the back wall. He told himself he would give it an hour of waiting by his work for any sign of Father, Grayson or even Pennyworth before he slipped out the back exit. 

He tried not to get his hopes up. Father had said nothing, Pennyworth knew little more than Damian was staying late, and Grayson had not yet responded.

Looking around at the happy elites and their children all around him, Damian felt himself growing enraged. There was a constant weariness to his soul, a void that he had learned to hide with a veil of anger, but this was different- this was an honest resentment, not a facade. The prolonged emptiness was ever present, but a jealousy was growing, a _hatred_ for the people surrounding him. 

He resented the others for being _happy._

It was a form of extreme jealousy, a manifestation of sadness and longing that broke into an outraged irritation for the families in the ballroom. For their eager participation in such a juvenile event- for their willingness to be with their children for an activity of such little significance. 

He couldn’t envy them anymore than he did. 

Damian stood his ground as the judges made their rounds, clipboards tucked to their chests with lists of the student’s names and the titles of their entries. Most participants were doing the same as Damian, sticking close to their work, but for them it was the eagerness to see where they placed and not so they could watch out for family. Damian felt sick thinking of the contrast.

Across the hall by the photography section stood Ms. Everest, and Damian was torn between wishing her to come over and hoping she wouldn’t see his lack of accompaniment. She made the decision for him, catching his eye as he watched her mingle with a student’s parents. Damian watched as she quickly, but politely, excused herself before cutting across the crowd to him. 

“I see you made the right decision,” she smiled once she reached him. She gave him a quick glance but almost immediately diverted her attention to the drawing hanging behind him. “I see you have a theme?” She asked once she had given the image a once over. 

“I like animals,” Damian replied, studying her face for a reaction. He hoped she would be pleased, it was the most PG sketch he had ever created.

“Of course,” she nodded, “appropriate as well.” 

Damian stilled for a moment, worried that she had somehow made a connection with his drawing and his family's night life before he realized she was referring to the absence of his usual blood and gore. 

“I know how to follow direction,” he said instead, some of the building bitterness inside his chest coming through.

Damian followed her gaze to his final product. It was realistically detailed, but nothing to fawn over in his opinion. The main subject was a nest, filled with lively robins, chirping happily and varying minimally in size. 

On the ground below, broken and forgotten, lay a much smaller bird. 

She was judging his sketch, he could tell. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her lips were pursed as if she was considering something of great concern. Probably trying to decide how to tell him how terrible it was, or how wrong she had been about him-

“Is everything okay, Damian?” She asked, turning to look at him now. He froze once more. The small burns and lacerations still visible on his hands, neck, and face were mostly healed by now and he thought he had remained a neutral face during his inner turmoil. 

She was waiting, he realized, for an answer. He should have said that things were fine, but they were not, were they? He didn’t feel up to lying to her when it felt like her companionship was all he still had.

“Things are suitable,” he managed. 

“Where is your family?” She looked around, peering up and down the aisles of art for the familiar faces she often saw on television. 

“They had… other engagements,” Damian said. Not technically a lie.

She hums, but offers no other response as her eyes fall on him once more. She studies his face, and then his neck. Damian’s hands grow clammy, there is no way she can possibly _see_ , not after he had spent so long covering them up. 

Perhaps the makeup was wearing off. Did he forget to reply before the show? Had he forgotten to apply the concealer that _morning_?

“No one could make it?” She asked, wondering what his father and five siblings could be doing _instead_ of attending the youngest family member’s art show. 

Damian wants to scream, yell at her for bringing more attention to the situation than it warrants. For making it ever more clear to him that he has no one when everyone else has _someone_ . That he is alone when he shouldn’t be, because that's how she sees it. She doesn’t know that he doesn’t _deserve_ any company, not even her’s.

“No,” he whispered, gulping through the growing pressure in his throat. 

“That’s a shame, they won’t get to take a picture with the winner,” she smiled, though it seemed forced and Damian worried that he was losing her too.

“They see me far too frequently, anyhow,” he mumbled. 

A crease grew on her forehead.

“Can you excuse me for a moment?” She asked, already backing away, her hand going to her pocket for her cellphone. It was not ringing but Damian could see the flash of desperation in her eyes, the eagerness to escape. So he forced himself to nod. 

And just like that, he had lost her too. 

-

Jane Everest hoped she was making the right decision, acting as rashly as she had. There was little proof and she despised making assumptions about people, especially when the situation didn’t concern her, but she felt that this time was different. There was a desperate hollowness in that boy’s eyes that had been there far too long for her to be able to ignore any longer. 

The healing wounds and lack of family had made the decision for her.

Digging out her phone she tapped out the numbers a teacher never wanted to call.

_“Gotham City, Child Protective Services Speaking. How may we help you?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are my coffee :)
> 
> Stay safe and healthy <3
> 
> Nudge me on tumblr @solarcelest


	3. Singed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked me in the ass. I'm not quite sure what it was exactly, but I really struggled getting this one together. Shout out to my beta (BrokenHeartedQueen), for making this new installment even possible. 
> 
> I'm sorry that this chapter took almost three weeks, I hope the content makes up for it!

Damian had been standing on his own for so long that he had lost track of how much time had really passed. Ms. Everest hadn’t returned after her hasty departure, phone pressed tightly to her ear as she hurried out of a side exit. Damian wondered if she was talking about  _ him _ to the voice on the other end of the line _.  _

She had very obviously been appalled at the scene he had created. Damian had been trained by the finest psychologists to read people, whether through their expressions, movements, or words. Ms. Everest had shown her distaste for his piece through all of the above.

He didn’t think she was cross with him, not quite. She had asked that he make the piece that he entered age appropriate; PG (a term he had needed to search on his laptop) and he believed he had followed those guidelines rather well. He  _ hoped  _ he did, after all there seemed to be nothing too gruesome about the image. There was no blood, at least. 

Disappointment, then. After being faced with it so many times, Damian could recognize the look on anyone. He had seen the sadness, the regret, and the deep longing for something that wasn’t and would  _ never  _ be there. He knew how to detect it so efficiently because it was ever present in himself.

Once again, he had  _ failed  _ no matter how hard he had tried to succeed.

The voices around him seemed to have been dampened, fading into the background as his attention was swallowed by his thoughts. There was only so much time remaining in the gallery and not one member of his family had appeared. Damian had left a trail of obvious clues for Father, sent an -admittedly somewhat desperate- text to Grayson, and had most likely even mentioned the event in front of  _ Drake  _ in the past week. Pennyworth, even, had not made an appearance.

What stung the worst, however, was that Grayson hadn’t even bothered to  _ respond _ . 

The copious load of guilt Damian had been burdened by because of what happened the last time he had seen his oldest brother was making the pressing weight on his shoulders nearly unbearable. Honestly, he hadn’t intended to ruin the evening or make Richard cross. Damian hadn’t meant to push him away, he definitely hadn’t  _ wanted  _ to.

He hadn’t thought it would have been so easy to, either- not after all those promises Grayson had made. Especially not after Damian had allowed himself to believe what he had with his eldest brother was unconditional.

Grayson had always assured Damian that he was by his side in everything, that he would  _ always  _ be there for him. He had promised that things were going to be  _ different  _ with him. 

And they were. In some ways, the more obvious ones: Damian was not as hurt as he used to be, in a physical sense, at least. But all the same, Grayson had abandoned him just like everyone else.

Perhaps that was why he had clung to Ms. Everest in the superfluous way that he had, because he had suspected that Grayson’s tolerance for him was slipping away. 

Ms. Everest had been kind, she was smart, and she was  _ there.  _ All Damian had needed, _ still  _ needed, was for someone to be there. 

And now there was no one. 

Now he was alone. 

Again. 

Damian looked over once more at the doorway Ms. Everest had disappeared through and willed her to reappear, no matter her current opinion of her. He despised being forced to stand by his artwork alone for hours on end. He dreaded having to continue watching the other students bask in the praise of their families and friends. 

All Damian wanted was for someone to stand with him. He craved a distraction from the hugs and shoulder pats being exchanged around the room. There was no one so, as usual, he hid behind a scowl.

If only he could sit, then he could sink into the floor and  _ disappear.  _ Damian thought he should just leave, no one was near him, no one was there for him, and he was quite sure that no one was going to come. 

He had just gathered his things and was turning to leave out of the same entrance Ms. Everest had fled through not too long ago when someone suddenly approached him.

“Damian Thomas Wayne?” They called from his right. It was a strange greeting, considering his full name had been used to address him, a title  _ he  _ was still hardly used to hearing. He looked over, brow scrunched in confusion. 

The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with blond hair twisted back from her face. She had warm brown eyes and soft lips, nose slightly upturned in a way that reminded Damian of a fairy from those movies Grayson was so fond of. Large glasses framed her eyes. 

“May I help you?” Damian asked, stepping in front of his sketch slightly. Self conscious and uncomfortable, he played with the hem of his academy shirt anxiously.

“I was just wondering what the inspiration for that piece was?” The woman asked, indicating the image he was doing an apparently poor job at obscuring. He swallowed, throat thick with a feeling he was starting to become more and more familiar with. Damian suddenly felt slightly ill and very, very exhausted. Was it too much to ask for him to be able to leave this horrid event? 

“Someone told me to illustrate my emotions,” he said, not having the energy to think of anything other than the truth. 

“The birds?” She inquired. “Are those symbolic?” 

_ Yes.  _ He wanted to say. That, however, would be too risky to admit. Not when there had already been so many close calls with his family's alternate identities. Being who he was, in the city he was, he could not safely claim that robins had a personal meaning to him. 

“They are fragile creatures,” Damian answered instead of being honest. “But strong and agile in almost an unfathomable way. I admire them deeply.” He released his shirt and balled his fists, pressing his sharp nails into the soft flesh of his palms.

Her eyes flicked over his face, assessing him. Damian steeled himself in the way that he had been taught, the way that he had spent so much time and energy perfecting.

“I’m Carol,” the woman said, holding her hand out. When Damian didn’t reach out to shake it she withdrew it and continued with her introduction. “I work with Gotham City Child Protective Services.” 

Damian stiffened. He knew GCCPS better than most, from all of his nocturnal work with Father. They were an efficient business, but not one that any child wanted to have a need for. A GCCPS agent coming to  _ him, _ with no warning or implication was not a good thing, he was sure. 

He wondered if something had happened to Father, it was customary after all, for Damian to be formally placed with another relative if Father was either critically or fatally injured. The thought sat with him heavily. 

Deep within another, far more cruel voice whispered a different idea. ‘ _ What if Father called  _ them’. 

Damian fought an uncomfortable chill.

“What is the meaning of this visit?” Damian asked, doing his best to appear as civil and non-threatening as he was able. Father and Grayson had always warned him to use extra caution with civilian adults.

“We received a… troublesome call a little while ago. A citizen had some concerns about the circumstances in your home and-”

“Everything is just  _ fine _ , _ ” _ Damian spat, cutting off  _ Carol’s  _ inane accusation. He would not be kind if this woman believed she could pry into his private matters. The Wayne’s were well known for their philanthropy and Bruce Wayne for his friendly manner with children and Damian hadn’t been lying when he had said things were ‘fine’. Father was tolerating him, both in his day and night life, and that was more than Damian had the right to ask for. 

“May I ask what happened there?” She asked, pointing to her own neck as she stared at his. Damian unclenched his fists, hands flying to his own skin. How  _ idiotic _ , he should have excused himself to the restroom to reapply his stowed concealer the moment Ms. Everest had mentioned the cuts-

_ Ms. Everest _

It felt as if his heart was being impaled over and over again by the Heretic’s sword. He had thought that Ms. Everest had understood him,  _ liked _ him even, that she would keep the things he shared with her to herself. He had trusted her too quickly and he had been foolish for it. She had been just like the others, she was only trying to make things more difficult for him, she was trying to tear apart everything that he had worked so hard to build.

She had turned and stabbed him in the back just the same as everybody else. 

Recently, Ms. Everest had been the only person that Damian felt he could count on, no matter how pathetic that was. Out of all the people, she was the one that was destroying  _ everything. _

An anger flared in his chest. That was  _ not  _ what he wanted. How could anyone think that was what he wanted? The  _ one _ thing that had always been the most important, the thing Damian had  _ fought  _ for, was to get to know his father. All he had ever wanted was the ability to meet him and work with him and maybe, someday, make him proud. How could Damian ever prove himself to a man that he was never with?

He wanted to punch something until his knuckles were broken and bleeding, until his fingers were numb from the pain. Until his hands were so beyond repair that he could be sure he would never be able to draw again.

Damian wanted to scream, to cry, to snap the neck of the woman in front of him and present it to his mother because that idealism was the only thing that still made sense- because killing for praise was the only thing he still knew. 

He couldn’t, though, because he had made a promise to his father and to Richard and if he broke those words then he would truly not have anything left.

“Damian?” The woman-  _ Carol _ , prodded. “I need you to come with me, please. I promise everything is going to be okay.” Her voice was sickly sweet. He wanted to insult her stupidity, to refuse, to hate her for speaking down to him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to say anything other than “ _ no” _ . 

“I’m sorry, but it's policy,” She said, reaching her hand out to him once more. Still, Damian did not take it. She was coddling him, belittling him with a voice reserved only for a frightened pup or a terrified toddler. He was a warrior, a  _ soldier, _ he did not need a guardian and he certainly could go without the miscreants poking and prodding at his nearly healed wounds.

“You really need to come with me,” she said again, coaxing him still as gently. 

He thought of the implications, of what would happen if he went with her or if he chose to run. Where would he go? They would look at the manor first, and Damian could not go to Grayson when the man was cross with him. Todd and he had an agreement to be civil at best and Drake would probably jump with glee and hand him to the authorities himself.

Damian could not return to Mother’s, not when she had made his displacement in the al Ghul family so painfully clear. Not when she had so confidently disowned him. 

It did not matter what happened to him. No one, including himself, was all that concerned about Damian’s well being. No one would care to ask what he wanted.

He wanted nothing- or, nothing material, nothing that was  _ achievable.  _ That was strikingly clear now. He had accepted his fate, accepted the fact that it truly was impossible to love the vile person that he had let himself become. The evil disappointment he probably always had been.

Damian was too exhausted to have the energy to care what happened to him any longer. So he simply nodded and followed ‘Carol’ out of that cursed exit.

-

Officer Richard Grayson was the youngest detective in his precinct. After only five months of working for the Bludhaven PD, he was still often referred to as “Rookie” and other, similar terminology. 

When he had first worked with his colleagues, many of them had been expecting a stuck up, rich Gothamite. Instead, they learned to love the over caring, kind soul that Dick Grayson proudly wore on his sleeve.

They cared for him, yes, but they never went easy on him in drills. 

Sweating, sore, and hungry after a strict, six hour mandatory training, Dick finished his final lap and turned to the Chief for his belongings. That was the rule with Bludhaven police training: finish your regimen before being allowed to collect your keys and cellphone.

“You're mighty popular,” Chief Johnson said once Dick had reached him. “Your phone’s been going off more than my teenager’s, which is saying something.”

Dick chuckled, shaking his head at what was probably just the family group chat, where Cass and Steph liked to dump random messages and images.

He thanked the chief, calling his goodbye to the other officers who were still finishing their drills before heading to the locker room to clean up. At least, he thought to himself, he had the weekend off.

Finally refreshed and dressed in loose clothes, he left the precinct and headed to his car. He was planning to head to Gotham in the morning, to surprise Damian. He needed to make it up to the boy, after what had happened when they had last seen each other about two weeks prior. Dick had just been so busy, both with his work at BHPD and at building his reputation in Bludhaven as Nightwing. 

If there was anything that he missed about being Batman, besides having Damian at his sides at all times of course, was the automatic respect he received from everyone- even many villains. As Nightwing, still a rookie and a wannabe in the eyes of his new city, respect was still something he had to work to earn. 

Still, Dick knew that wasn’t an excuse to ignore Damian. He didn’t  _ want  _ to ignore the boy either, though he had to admit that he had probably gone far too long without calling or texting his little brother. Dick knew that Dami would  _ never  _ reach out to him and he was missing their regular check-ins.

He climbed into his car, turning on the heat and the radio before he decided to finally take a quick look at what the girls had been sending before he headed home. Dick sat back, relaxing tired muscles, and clicked on his phone.

Panic overtook him when he was greeted with a bombardment of missed call notifications the moment that the screen blinked to life. There were multiple from Bruce, three from a Gotham number that he otherwise didn’t recognize, and one from Tim. It was an odd combination, especially considering that Bruce rarely called him and never consecutively.  _ Something was really wrong.  _

Dick scrolled through his missed calls list with shaking fingers, trying to decide which to return first. True to character, neither Bruce nor Tim had left any voicemails or messages. Dick did notice, however, that the unknown number had left one. 

He clicked on it.

“ _ This is Gotham City Child Protective Services calling for Richard Grayson on behalf of Damian Wayne. There was an incident earlier in the evening that prompted us to temporarily remove Damian from his current home. As you are listed as his legal guardian, we are hoping that you can come pick him up. We will provide more information once you arrive. If you are unable, we will find an alternative solution. Please return this call as soon as possible. Thank you.”  _

The end tone sounded but Dick kept the phone held to his ear, frozen.

For a blinding moment, Dick was overwhelmed. Worry, confusion, and numerous other emotions clouded his mind. Had Damian been hurt? Was it all a ploy by the media? There wasn’t another playable reason that Social Services would have taken Damian into custody, at least, not one that Dick was able to think of in his panic.

He breathed multiple deep, calm and clarifying breaths and redirected his focus. Dick would be able to reconsider how this situation had come to be  _ after  _ he was positive Damian was okay until he could get to him.

Fingers trembling, Dick dialed the number.

_ “Gotham Child Protective Services.” _

_ “Uh-yes _ , this is Dick Grayson? I just got a call about my brother Damian?” Dick explained anxiously. 

_ “Yes, Mr. Grayson. We have Damian here with us at our office in downtown Gotham. Given the circumstances it is required that we place him with foster parents or in a group home if an alternative, suitable relative cannot, or is not willing to care for the child.” _

“Excuse me?” Dick asked, thoroughly confused. “What do you mean, “under the circumstances?”

_ “We received a call earlier in the evening about some concerns for Damian’s safety in his current home,” _ the voice on the other line said. “ _ And because the boy is not denying these claims, and we are required to evaluate the situation before returning a child to a potential ill-fit home, we cannot allow Damian to go with his father.”  _ The voice paused, the sound of papers shuffling crackling through the speaker.  _ “It says here that you are Damian’s secondary legal guardian?” _

Dick’s brain was short circuiting, his mouth opening and closing. He had no words, he had no  _ context.  _ What the  _ hell  _ was going on?

What probably concerned him the most was that they had said Damian  _ hadn’t denied anything. _

“ _ Mr. Grayson?”  _ The voice asked again, probably mistaking Dick’s confused silence for hesitation.  _ “Would you like us to place Damian into a foster family’s care for the time being?”  _ They asked, snapping Dick out of his stupor. He hoped Damian wasn’t nearby, he didn’t want his little brother to have heard that, not with the stubborn, insecure head he had on his shoulders.

“N-no!” Dick hurried. “No. I can be there in thirty minutes. Dami can come with me, yeah?” 

_“Yes. He_ _is already yours, according to the law,”_ continued the still nameless voice. They were making Dick feel even worse than he already had for his recent negligence on the Damian-front. 

“I’m on my way,” He promised, entering the address into his car’s GPS. He didn’t want to make Damian wait there for any longer than what was necessary.

_ “Great, we’ll be waiting in the front room.”  _

_ We’ll _ , as in Dames had probably been sitting in a hard plastic chair, directly beside the GCCPS employee all along.

Dick was just about to click off his phone and speed all the way to Gotham when an unopened message still lingering on his lock caught his attention. He skimmed over it quickly, already shifting gears with his other hand.

_ Little D: Art show tonight. 7pm. Gotham Academy. _

Dick’s stomach twisted painfully.

-

Dick pulled his car haphazardly into a street parking space. He had made it to Gotham the fastest that he ever had, admittedly speeding slightly, heart pumping rapidly in his chest the entire way. 

He was unable to wrap his head around the situation. It simply did not make sense. Besides a few grudges, more than a couple disagreements, and typical tough love throughout the years, Bruce had never done anything that would be considered bad parenting. Alfred would have never allowed it and, frankly, Dick didn’t believe Bruce had it in him to intentionally harm his children- no matter what his gruff, no-nonsense personality may suggest. 

Dick would have thought that someone had simply called to stir trouble, that someone was only looking to damage the Wayne name- as that was quite common. But once again he reminded himself that Damian had not fought the claims.

Dick supposed he wouldn’t truly know until he went inside. 

He hurried out his car, suddenly wanting,  _ needing _ to see Damian. This whole situation, the reported cooperation and willingness to part from Bruce sending warning bells. Dick would know, he heard enough of it when Bruce had been trapped in the time stream. It had been the reason he had forced himself to step back, to move back to Bludhaven and allow Damian to have that sought out time with his father.

And now the boy was just giving it all away? It didn’t make any sense. 

The soft lighting of the social services office seemed blinding then, surrounded by the comforting blanket of darkness that made up Gotham’s night sky. Dick was stumped. He had never been in charge of someone like this. Alfred had been by his and Damian’s side throughout all of the legal transactions when they were living in the penthouse. He had taken care of all of Damian’s schooling and health and the majority of his civilian life. Dick had only handled their nightlife and had fun with the boy.

Though he was hesitant to admit it, Dick deserved credit for continuing Bruce’s hard fought battle on teaching the boy the importance of justice. 

Still, he hadn’t ever really  _ parented  _ Damian. He loved the boy -of course he did, how could he  _ not- _ but it had always felt different. Dick was the fun older brother, Alfred was the one who enforced things like bedtime and healthy meals and, in all honesty, Dick had always tried to ignore the fact that he was the boy’s legal guardian according to the law. 

Now, standing in front of the large, intimidating GCCPS building, Dick could ignore that fact no more. 

On the other side of the door, Dick knew, his little brother was sitting and waiting for Dick to come in and save the day. 

Dick liked to believe that he knew Damian better than anyone else. He could tell what the boy was thinking and feeling just by looking at him, just by hearing the kid’s  _ voice.  _ Dick knew that Damian had a heart more full and kind than anyone he had ever met and even though people struggled to believe it, Damian truly was just a  _ child _ at heart. 

Damian talked to his pets and he drew his family and he got happy, sad, and scared. Dick had heard him  _ laugh _ and  _ cry. _ He had seen the boy at his most vulnerable. 

It became obvious then, with his hand on the cold metal door of the office, that  _ he  _ was the only one that should be going to get Damian. 

Dick steeled himself, wearing a neutral expression on his face as he pushed open the door. 

The first thing that he saw was that the office was surprisingly full, considering the time of night. There were two agents at the front desk, one shuffling papers and the other clicking away at a too-bright computer screen. There were a couple of fake plants by the door that Dick nearly tripped over in his distracted haste. To the right of those was a line of hard, plastic waiting chairs. 

Dick hated those chairs, nothing good ever happened in them, and he should know- he’s been forced to wait in them far too many times.

Damian, of course, was in the center. 

The boy was sitting with his arms wrapped around his middle. Damian was huddled in upon himself, head down and feet rested on the plastic beneath him. His knees were tucked so tightly to his chest that made him appear much younger than he was.

There was no more doubt in Dick’s mind after seeing his usually strong and determined baby brother so dispirited. He couldn’t deny Damian after seeing the boy look so uncharacteristically defeated and vulnerable.

Dick surged forward, arms out for the child that he had dropped everything for- for the boy that he would continue to give the world to if Damian were to ask.

“Oh, Dames,” Dick cooed, voice soft and empathetic as he reached for Damian. 

Damian looked up at Dick for the first time since the older had walked in, eyes widening in surprise when he saw him. Instead of relaxing or standing as Dick had been expecting, Damian seemed to only curl further into himself.

Dick hesitated. He wondered if the touch aversion that Dami had shown when he had first come to Gotham was rearing its ugly head once more. But the thought of that broken, touch starved child that Dick had first met over a year ago had him breaking himself out of his daze to sweep the boy into his arms. He grabbed the child from under his arms, his own large hands closing around a body that was much bonier than Dick remembered it being.

Damian melted once he was situated, cementing Dick’s decision to pick him up. Damian gripped Dick back with little hesitance, tightly and  _ desperately _ and the older male buried his face in the younger boy’s baby-soft hair. 

“It’s okay, Dami,” he promised, swaying them both. “I’m going to make it okay.” Damian only buried himself deeper into the embrace for a moment more before pushing stubbornly against Dick’s chest. 

Dick sighed at Damian’s objection to the comfort he needed but moved to put him down.

“Richard Grayson?” A woman’s voice came from behind. Dick rested a hand on Damians small shoulder, relishing in the relief the contact brought.

“That’s me,” Dick said, though not with the usual humor that statement typically carried. 

“I’m Carol. I was assigned to Damian’s case,” she said, reaching her hand out to him. Dick took it hesitantly before pulling away. She moved awkwardly to the front desk.

“All I need is an ID and your signature and then you're free to leave. One of my coworkers will contact you with more details on the….” Carol hesitated, looking for a word that wouldn't come across as offensive, “situation.” 

“Can you tell me anything?” Dick asked, anxious from being kept in the dark for so long.

“There’s been some reports from a Gotham Academy employee,” she offered. “They had some concerns about Damian’s home, apparently he had come to school with some worrying injuries.” 

Dick was still confused. Of course Damian was going to go to school with injuries every once in a while, they all had. But it also helped that they had all been young boys, then it was easy to blame rough play and dangerously fun games- such as sliding down the banister.

There was a piece missing, though. Damian hadn’t appeared to have any major injuries from what little Dick had been able to see- nothing to justify a call to CPS.

“What else?” He pressed. “There has to be more evidence to cause a reaction that severe,” he tried to sound civil and keep the underlying concern and anger out of his voice. 

“There were some concerns about Damian’s current behavior,” Carol glanced at the boy beside Dick. She probably didn’t want to talk about this with him right there but Dick motioned for her to continue.

“His teacher said he’s been showing signs of anxiety, and disinterest. His grades have plummeted over the last week. The librarian said he’s been showing symptoms of dissociation and depression,” She explained. Across from her, Damian’s eyes were glued to his shoes

Dick stiffened. Damian had always seemed so poised and thick skinned. Dick had always been prepared for a breakdown, but when more time passed and one never came he supposed that maybe Damian was just… different from other kids. Maybe he really was okay with what had happened during the first ten years of his life. 

If this was true, then maybe Dick had been missing the signs for a long time now. With new found horror, he thought back to the night out with their siblings.

Being engulfed by guilt, Dick gently squeezed the hand he had rested on Damian’s shoulder in reassurance.

“Was there anything else?” Dick dares to ask. Carol nodded and he felt his heart plummet.

“There was an art show this evening,” she started. “And Damian created an… interesting piece.”

That admission made more sense to Dick than anything else had that night. He was one of the only people alive that Damian allowed to see his sketches and he knew that the boy had a unique style. He often chose morbid subjects, things that would give nightmares to other children his age and had caused even Dick to shiver on multiple occasions. They were chilling images that often left Dick feeling empty. Sometimes he would rather not look at them, though they were so realistic it was difficult not to.

Dick had asked Dinah about it once, but she had only told him that it was probably just Damian’s form of self expression but she would actually need to talk to the boy to learn any more. To Damian, she had said, art was a therapy. 

“So what happens now?” Dick asked. 

“Now we investigate Damian’s previous home and guardian for any signs of neglect or abuse,” Carol explained. 

“Bruce Wayne would  _ never  _ abuse his own son,” Dick spat, defending the man he hoped with all his heart was innocent. 

“Be that as it may, it’s procedure to perform an investigation when we receive a concerned call and there is suspicious evidence on the child.” 

Dick wanted to scream in frustration. Investigations like that could take  _ months. _

“You may be questioned as well,” Carol continued,” since you were under Bruce’s care for much of your childhood.” 

Dick was becoming more frustrated with this situation.  _ Three kids _ and there were hardly any issues regarding Bruce’s parenting methods. Why now? Dick couldn’t fathom Bruce doing anything to warrant this. 

“Can I take him home, now?” He sighed. 

“As long as Damian is not in contact with his Father until the investigation is conducted then you may leave with him,” Carol said, taking Dick’s ID when he offered it. 

“Just sign here and then you can leave,” she said, pointing to a blank line at the bottom of a form. “It’s just stating that you’re who collected him tonight,” she explained.

Dick nodded and signed. The pen skipped as he wrote.

“Expect a call sometime tomorrow morning. One of our agents will explain the process in more detail,” Carol waved goodbye as Dick took Damian’s school bag from the chair it had been leaning against and threw it over his shoulder.

He flashed a quick, though forced, smile and fled to the door, guiding Damian with a hand on the small of his back. The crisp night air was a refreshing difference from the suffocating office.

It’s after eleven in the evening by the time Dick and Damian made it out of the building. Dick kept his eye out for any hidden predators as he made his way to the car, still with his little brother securely in his arms. 

Damian had been unusually reserved during the entire ordeal, withdrawn to a concerning amount. 

Throughout Dick and Carol’s conversation Damian was silent, and when he had first arrived, Damian had clung to his brother with a level of desperation that Dick had never seen from him. Even Damian’s breaths were almost inaudible and he had been mute in a way that suggested he was afraid to utter a word. 

Something happened that Dick still wasn’t aware of. 

Dick couldn’t convince himself that Bruce would have hurt Damian, not physically at least. Not only was there no recent injuries -besides a few burn and cut marks he chalked up to minor wounds from patrol- but Dick couldn’t allow himself to kick Bruce to that low of a pedestal. Hurting Damian emotionally, however, Dick wouldn’t put past the man.

Damian was a unique kid. He was all sharp, defensive walls on the outside but the inside was a bubbling mixture of anxiety, self-doubt, and trauma. Damian needed to be handled differently than Bruce was used to treating his children. He needed attention, Damian needed validation to prove to himself that he was worth something.

Dick had left Gotham before he had really had the chance to see how Bruce interacted with Dami. He had done that purposefully, fled before he could have any influence on the relationship between son and father. He hadn’t wanted to come between Damian and his biggest dream. 

Now Dick fears that he may have made the biggest mistake of his life.

Whatever it was that happened it must have been something on Bruce’s half. Dicks made mistakes with Damian too many times to count- small jabs that his other brothers would have mindlessly brushed off. Even certain jokes could offend the boy because he simply didn’t understand sarcasm. 

The first years of Damian’s life had been full of manipulation, disappointment, brutal punishment, and emotional neglect. He was perhaps the most fragile of them all.

He certainly felt tiny and breakable in Dick’s arms, so vulnerable that Dick couldn’t even be pleased that Damian had finally allowed himself to be held- even if just for a moment.

“Think you can tell me what happened, Little D?” Dick asked as he sat next to the kid in the back seat of his car. He would move upfront in a moment, once we made sure his baby brother was alright.

Damian shook his head, bony, minuscule fingers tangling themselves in Dick’s thin t-shirt.

“Are you mad at me?” Dick asked instead. He wouldn’t blame the kid, not after he practically  _ abandoned  _ him after Bruce’s return and every time Damian had tried to reach out to him after. 

Still though, Damian shook his head with minimal hesitation. 

“May we just go home?” Damian asked, speaking the first words Dick had heard from him all night. His voice was tight and wobbled like he was trying hard to hold back tears. 

“Yeah, Dames. We’ll go home,” Dick promised.

Except, he wasn’t sure where that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thats a wrap! This series is going to be three parts, three chapter each- all around the same length as these have been. I hope you all stick around for the big finale- it's been such a joy reading all of your comments and I can't thank you all enough for all of the support.
> 
> All of my readers' continued support is the reason I continue to post.
> 
> Comments are my coffee :)
> 
> Stay safe and healthy <3
> 
> Nudge me on tumblr @solarcelest

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to give a big thanks to everyone who has stuck around while I have tried to develop myself as a writer, I wouldn’t have had the motivation to continue without all of those persistent comments, kudos, and bookmarks. Even with this work, I second guess its quality and hesitate to post.  
> Nevertheless, I hope everyone is doing okay during this crazy time and want everyone to know that if they need a shoulder to cry on or just someone to chat with you can always come find me on tumblr @solarcelest.
> 
> Comments are my coffee :)
> 
> Stay safe and healthy! <3


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